OUR ANSWER: The Return of the Black Sun

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Rahfel
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OUR ANSWER: The Return of the Black Sun

Post by Rahfel » 11/06/16

I was here long before they all met.
Master and Mama know what is best for us, so we will do as they ask.
He will wait for him outside the Gates of Judgement and say his name so he will know we are here.
You've killed them.
You've returned to Hate.
Well done.

Can we go now?
"Serve... Save... Slave... Slay... "
I struggled to hear the words of others over that which was pounding in in my head.
He is right, of course.
He has always been right.
Only when we have renounced everything are we free to do as we did before.
All we have to do is ask, and he shall set us free.


((Guess who's back in EQ2? this guy.))

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Rahfel
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Re: OUR ANSWER: The Return of the Black Sun

Post by Rahfel » 12/16/16

(Not a journal, so much as a solidified recollection of events.)

Ambiance:
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The golden orb thrashes violently in your hands; clearly unwilling to surrender its contents as you pick it up and try to peruse its memory-transcribed contents. The floor beneath your feet rumbles slightly as loud, colorful music seems to bubble up beneath you. Oddly-pitched vocals (presumably female) begin to choir and resonate with a surreal echo as they sing in tongues since forgotten and un-uttered by man. The sounds grow progressively louder like a bubble swelling from below; expanding until one's mind and eardrums seem fit to burst. The memory is undoubtedly that of a powerful creature, and his emotions seep into your fingertips until they may be felt parallel to your own; making it hard to discern whether they are his feelings or your own. Images begin to form until a live scene plays like a brilliant screen behind your eyes, separating you from reality for the time allotted. The events serve as a visual archive or collection of some sort begin to leak into your mind like the pouring of gilded honey; retaining an effervescent sweetness while nothing ultimately subtracted from the fact that it was only the most fatal and desirable of poisons. A mere fragment of the mind from a planar paragon is a powerful thing indeed. Perhaps you should limit your exposure to this orb to one memory at a time...



Upon ascending the stage, a fiery-skinned dancer assumed an introductory arabesque posture. Coupled with his own eerily melodic vocals, the music emanating from within the orb appears to be a loud, powerful remnant of the recollections it contains.
The edge of the blade neatly cuts the dark silk top about his chest; the garment is soon discarded and flung across the room.
Having drawn the glowing sword from his back, Rahfel brandished the weapon in a graceful sweeping motion that caused its colorful wrappings and eyelets to flutter in the air as they descend to the ground slowly, like a butterfly gracing the face of a delicate flower.
Three of his larger golden earrings shone as though the light had been forcibly directed upon them for a moment. The array of jewelry offers a music clattering sound that resonates and compliments the music.

A sharp whistle pierced the air; the sound faint with a mournful resonance, like a wolf pup howling up at the moon from the guise of a distant forest. A faint yet vivid blue wisp flickers to life from the shadows for a moment and drifts languidly toward the stage before vanishing. The shapely dancer hunkered up as the music begins to behave in kind; posturing as though he were a runner-up participant in a nobleman’s challenge. Rapid revolutions, dips, flurries and flourishes of the sword eventually laid host to colorful indications whose collective formed picture, or a perhaps a moving scene. The sword was flurried, emulating a small colorful tornado as it moves carefully in various directions. The metal hummed softly in the wake of the thin tongues of color chased the blade’s edge.
Coupled with the intricate swordplay were movements shaming an acrobatic adept. The dancer jumped, whirled and twisted in midair before his feet met the ground again. Though the movements were spright, intricate and downright agile. It seemed a miracle that the blade moving in tow left not even the most minuscule of scratches or marring on anything immediately nearby.

Many of the colors and budding lights surrounded the dancer flickered, sputter and bloomed into various shapes. Some of them resembled flowers, and others were perhaps symbols of some sort that were arcane but nevertheless pleasing to look at! In the background, a few shadowy forms lay idly in wait could be made out; some perhaps on horseback?–and a few other obscured silhouettes seem to wait vigilantly in the shadows
Rahfel nearly pirouetted about the stage; the graceful toe movements evolve into what are nearly gravity-defying twirls with the angle of his form nearing parallel to the ground for a moment. The particularly bright flashes of color illuminated the dancer’s facial expression, which was somewhat distant and wrought with dewy determination. Perhaps he was rapt, or merely concentrating on what he was doing. It seemed hard to discern with certainty. Twists of color were added, offered by veils of colorful red and blue silk that erupted from beneath his wristlets. His movements mimicked appearance of a colorful flame whirlwind, complimented by swift and fluid rotations.
As the fiery-skinned dancer maneuvers the sword with surprisingly visible ease and grace, his form glistens and shimmers; hinting at effortborne perspiration. He drifted to a halt while shifting into another perfect arabesque with his head snapping to the side. The pace of the colorful swordplay fleetingly slowed by a notch or two. A toss of the hair left little to be seen of his face amid a swirling whirlwind of hair that billowed out like a silken fan split into an array of serpentine strips that became nightmarishly caught up in an unseen wind.
Another rapid series of metallic waves of the blade’s tongues of color formed thin, linear indications of butterfly wings on either side of the dancer’s sloping form.

He then broke into a sort of walk-waltz, halting adjacent to another shadowy figure. The blade swung from side to side rather rapidly, as a fatal pendulum attempting to chop something into a fine puree. At his back, two more shadowy silhouettes stepped out of the fray!
The blade abruptly met the shadowy chest region of one of the figures with a deep slash. The figure knelt and moved its shadowy indications for arms as though it were begging for mercy and upon being slashed again, being cast woefully back into oblivion. The mounted silhouette collided with the remaining figures, and each of them seemed to turn to flicker into nothingness as they are “slain”. The tenebrous rider dismounted and thrust his arms up into a defiant victory stance.

The graceful, persimmon-skinned performer tossed the sword in the air, and upon catching it, it was held by one hand as he reached backward and withdrew identical blade–rather, a flickering, illusory indication of an identical sword as if he was pulling something off an invisible shelf. The vocals of the first song neared their and alluded to a similar such victory. The dancer abruptly crossed the blades with one fell swoop and the scene faded into oblivion. Despite the fact that one of the swords had been a non-tangible, mere illusory copy of the other–there had been that rather obvious fell sounds of tempered metal crossing tempered metal.

As the music faded, so would all indications of the atmosphere about the room that had been conveyed by the performance. With a faint but satisfied clicking sound, Rahfel offered the captured audience a deep bow before he drifted off the stage like an amused and carefree spectre.


The images fade from your mind like a wispy, thin vapor; having been tugged away all too soon like a strict parent snatching a child's favorite toy away to revoke its privileges of enjoyment. The orb stops glowing, and grows deathly silent.

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Re: OUR ANSWER: The Return of the Black Sun

Post by Rahfel » 12/20/16

They have always been too soft.
Too fragile; too breakable.

No shimmering silver or glistening gold adornments; their skin is always littered with those delicate patches of violet and black. A necklace of fingerprints dust their collarbones, bangles of bruises decorate their wrists wrists.

There are always questions, always glances. But I smile, and explain that roses grow still between their ribs; that vines curl about their spines and raise their spirits toward the skies.

Do clouds not hide the sun, their silent faces ask? Our lips curl with knowing. Is it not. The clouds--which are rumored to be softer than an infant’s skin--are the true the prelude to the storm.

Our voice is lilting, quiet; dangerous.

We are the sun
The night,
the day,
the storm,
the flower,
the love,
the hate,
the shame,
the rose,
and the thorn.

We smile to them, and behind it lies unsuspecting and sharpened steel.

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